The Childhood of Montparnasse
by Inspector Karamazov
Summary: Seven-year-old Montparnasse turns from an innocent yet vain boy into a proper thief and murderer.
1. Chapter 1

In the year 18--, a little boy of seven found himself wandering in some rich public garden, several miles from his own little hovel. Hands shoved in his pocket, the little fellow's eyes fairly popped out of his head at the gentry that strolled about on the paths. There were immensely fat woman, so covered in lace that he wondered that they could even take a few steps. He gazed in wonder at the silks and fine clothes. Every so often, the boy would spit into his hands and rub them together, in an effort of get the dirt off. Why was an urchin wandering in such a fine place?

We shall attempt to explain.

The little fellow's only name was Montparnasse. He was called after his father, a vagrant who only came around twice a year at best. He saw no need to be called by anything else, it suited him. His mother, who barely seemed aware of his existence, called it only when she was angry with him. He belonged to a single woman who encouraged him to stay as far away from the house as possible. He was happy to oblige, for what had a tiny hovel and a dirty street to offer him? He was a boy who was enamored by silk and satin, by purples and blues. The drab colours and coarse wool of his own life held no interest for him. In his own mind, he was above them.

This was why he spent his days gazing at the well-to-do folks, imagining himself to be one of them.

"How am I different than they," he asked himself, "Not at all. I'm smarter than at least half of them and better-looking than most."

And, if it were not for his outfitting, he should fit amongst them very well. He had a handsome face for one so young, and fine, if filthy, black hair that he often reached out to twist in his fingers. Often, he would stop to straighten out his filthy rags, and re-position his scrap of a hat.

"Ah," he said, catching sight of himself in an immaculate carriage window, "I really might be a handsome fellow." He would stare at his reflection until the carriage moved on. The child continued his walk, trying to look at everything at once.

Suddenly, he stopped. On a bench nearby sat an elderly gentleman, who was deeply involved with a book. This did not interest little Montparnasse. What interested him was the old man's hat. It was an enormous thing, dark black with a blue band. It was far larger than any hat he'd ever seen before. He had the unfightable urge to reach out and touch it.

He snuck behind the bench, keeping his eyes on the old man's hat at all times. It was an advantage he had being small. How many pocket-books had he stolen in this manner?

He inched closer, like a cat going for the kill. And, like a cat, he made a leap for it. His fingers closed around his prize, and he was off in a flash. He was stopped by a stern hand on his shoulder.

"I believe that is my hat, boy."

Montparnasse looked up. The gentlemen looked down. Neither said a word, and the child made no move to release the hat.

"Do you think you can make your living by stealing from honest citizens?"

The boy blinked. He could think of nothing to say. He had never been caught in his work before, and now his mind spun furiously to think of a way out.

"Turn around."

He obeyed, though it meant he had to look the man face on.

"What is your name?"

"Montparnasse."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

The man reached out to take the hat, but the boy took a step backward. He was quite ready to run if he had to.

"Child, if you run, you will have men of the law at your heels, and a street full of witnesses who saw you. Return the hat, and I'll act as if nothing happened."

"Give it to me, and I will not have to run."

There was another silence. Montparnasse took note of clear paths through which he might escape.

"Very well. Take it and go. It is not fitting for a child like yourself to live like you are. Sell it, and make a profit. Take the money home to your mother, and live honestly. If I ever catch you at this game again," The man placed a hand on his shoulder, "I will most certainly call for the law. Do you understand, Monsieur Montparnasse?"

The boy nodded. He shoved the hat onto his head and made his escape.

"Stupid fellow," he laughed to himself as he ran, "I've got out of that scrape, with nothing but a lecture. Is that all these rich fools are made of? Surely, I'll out-fox them all."

He made his way to the dirty street-corner where his room was. It was situated on the bottom floor of a lopsided grey building. It had originally been a closet, and his mother rented it off the proprietor for half the price of a normal room. There was scarcely room for two people to inhabit it at a time. They took it in turns, by an unspoken system, to sleep in the room. They rarely saw each other. On one wall were fragmented shards of a mirror. It was for this reason that Montparnasse came home.

He found his mother sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was a short, scrawny, pale-faced woman of fourty-two. If it had not been for her abject poverty, she might have been beautiful. Had her hair not been chewed by lice, had her face been clean, with no teeth missing, she was the kind of beauty that would turn heads. It was this beauty, in fact, that had resulted in the birth of Montparnasse. After his birth and his father's disappearance, she forsook beauty, realizing it as the cause of all her troubles. She cared not that her teeth rotted, and that her face was scarred. It was all the better: no man would ever bother her.

She looked at Montparnasse with the greatest surprise when he entered. He knew he was not welcome, but took no notice.

"I am only here for a moment, mother," he said before she could shout at him.

He regarded himself in the broken mirror. The enormous hat, he thought, looked out of place in this filthy closet. It was strange to see such a fine thing over his gaunt face.

"I really am a handsome fellow." He said with a grin, that rendered him all the more handsome.

In his at of kindness, the rich gentlemen had increased the black mark of vanity in the child's soul. Could he have known that by sparing punishment, the already spoiled boy would rot more? He could not. Had he known the effect of his actions, would he have behaved differently? Most likely not.

It would have, perhaps, been kinder if he'd called the police and let the robber learn his lesson. Then, properly punished, young Montparnasse would think on amending his ways. The boy's heart was already hardened to kindness. It was a furnace of vanity, and the old man's act of mercy was merely kindling for it.

Montparnasse marveled at himself, at the handsome boy in the mirror.

"Why are you here? You know there is no room!" His mother's shout drew him from his reverie.

"I was just going, Mother." He tipped his hat to the miserable woman. He turned from his room with a new swagger in his step.


	2. Chapter 2

Little Montparnasse set off to wander the streets. He only wished for a place to rest his head. He usually took cover under the benches in the park. It would be too far for him to walk at that time. The sky was beginning to grey.

He would have to take shelter in the shabbier part of town. This scared him. Not only would he be in danger of murders or robbers, his new hat might get squashed and dirty. He would not consent to leaving it on the street, nor would he let it leave his head.

"Perhaps," he said to himself, "I'll just walk all night. The street lamps will keep me company."

He sat down under a street lamp, taking a bit of solace from the flickering light. It was very cold.

I do not deserve this, he thought. What have I done? I am seven years old and left to fend for myself.

He could not come up with an answer. Could there even be an answer for this? It is the plight of many children to wander. Some accept it for what it is. They go about their daily lives, almost unaffected by their poverty. They die young and cold. Their bodies are found in the gutter.

Other children try to fight it. They look for a better life. Many turn down corrupt paths to make it happen. These children choose robbery and murder. A path of blood is paved to a better life. They live, but at what cost to their souls?

He spent the whole night under the lamp post, shivering. His resentment kept him warm.

At about one in the morning, a drunken man staggered his way. The child leapt to his feet, ready to make a dash if need be.

"Wait. Stay."

The man staggered toward him. Montparnasse made no move. He was certain he could outrun the man if he needed to.

"What do you want?" He drew himself to his full height, just under four feet.

"I been looking. For you."

The man leaned against the post and looked down at him.

"What do you want with me?" The boy's hands wandered to his hat. He held it firmly in place.

The man reached forward, not for the hat, but to touch his face. The boy stepped back.

"Who are you?"

"You know." The drunk lurched forward. He lost his balance, and fell at the boy's feet.

Montparnasse made no move to help him out. There were men who would pretend to be helpless, just so they could rob. He was not going to let this drunken idiot come within an inch of his hat.

The man's hand twitched. He made a fruitless effort to stand.

"Child…" He reached out a hand.

Montparnasse bent down slightly to see the man's face. It was covered in blood. He took one hand off his hat. He grasped the man's hand, and pulled up his sleeve. His arm was covered in bruises. A stab of pity struck the vain little heart.

"What happened to you?"

"Fight. At the bar…."

Montparnasse attempted to pull the man to his feet. He was too weak. How could a child of seven lift a man of thirty?

He dropped the hand and glanced at the face again. It seemed familiar. He thought for a moment.

"Father!" He gasped suddenly.

"Son."

He squatted down and lifted his father's head. With his own sleeve, he wiped blood from his face.

"Are you going to be alright?"

"I don't know."

"Try and stand."

He tried. His effort was a failure.

"I can't."

Montparnasse was at a loss. If he ran and found someone to help, he might die on his own. Or some robber could finish him off.

"What should I do?"

"Just stay with me." He reached up and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. With supreme effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the lamp post.

His father reached a trembling hand in his pocket and pulled out a few francs.

"These are for your mother. Tell her I'm sorry."

Montparnasse pocketed the coins.

"I will."

They sat in silence for awhile. Sometimes silence is louder than words.

It was not long before three men came hurrying toward them, for the direction his father had come. They all carried clubs.

"You, Montparnasse!"

The boy jumped to his feet. What did they want with him? What had he done?

His father put a hand on his foot.

"Not you. Me."

The boy didn't sit back down, but he did not run.

The men approached his father.

"Thought you could escape? We take thievery seriously, you know!"

One of the men cracked his father over the head. The man didn't even cry out. He just looked at them.

"Please. Think of my son…"

"You should have thought of your son before you took the money." A second man hit him.

When the third man raised his club, the boy made a grab for it.

"That's my father! Leave him alone!"

The man shoved him aside.

"Go away, little boy. You've got nothing to do with this."

"Father…"

"Run, child," his father gasped. Blood leaked from his head, nose and mouth.

He needed no second warning. The boy took to his feet with all the speed he could manage. But he still heard the final blow on his father's head.


	3. Chapter 3

The child ran with all the strength his small legs could muster. He did not let himself think of the man who'd been beaten to death. His father. It could not have happened. And for what? The coins that now jingled in his pocket.

Montparnasse was good at running. I could outrun the wind, if I had to, he thought. It did not bother him that he had somehow lost his right shoe. He was due to steal another pair.

All that mattered was his hat. This he held to his head with both hands as he ran, heedless of direction. He was a boy of the shadows, taking care to keep out of the lamp light.

At last, when he felt he could run no more, he took a glance at his surroundings. He was at the same bench at which he had stolen his hat.

"Good," he said.

The boy crawled beneath the bench. Lying on his back, he let his hat rest on his stomach. He caught glimpses of the dark sky through the wooden slats of the bench. He thought back on his father, and the blow that hand ended his life. One thump with a club was all it took to end a life. What could his fists do?

He raised on tiny hand from the ground and examined it. These fists could end a life. The other fist was in his pocket, turning the coins over. He did not think of his father's death. It hardly mattered to him. He had only seen the man once in his life.

As the sun began to rise over the city, it began to set in his heart. Now that seeds of evil had been sown, they were not easily uprooted. The weed would begin to grow and choke the young fellow's good heart.

Little Montparnasse watched the sun send red light through the wooden slats. He shivered slightly, despite the growing warmth. He closed his over-tired eyes, and clasped the hat with both hands so no-one would steal it while he slept.

He was chased from the spot about an hour later by a policeman. He moved on. He saw the man from yesterday, now hatless, sitting on the same bench, immersed in his book. Montparnasse watched him, wondering how much money he had on his person.

As he watched, a dirty boy many years older than him slipped up behind the man. He could not see the boy's face, long hair hid the eyes, and the dirt was very thick. He moved as if he were made of shadow. He'd just got his hand in the man's pocket, when Montparnasse called out.

"Hey, there, good sir!"

The man stood up to greet him. He did not notice the bandit that shrunk back into the bushes.

"So it is you then. How do you today?"

Montparnasse swept off his hat and made the best bow he could.

"Quite fine, sir."

"You look as if you've had a rough night."

"No more rough than usual."

The boy scanned the bushed behind the bench. Though he squinted, he could see the faint glitter of the thief's eyes.

"Have you slept?"

"A bit."

"Well, then, come and sit with me and rest."

The man began to head back to the bench. The eyes glittered.

"But wait, sir!" The child clasped his hand, "I am not tired, but I want to go home. Will you walk there with me?"

"If you like."

While they walked, Montparnasse kept an eye out for the thief. He was nowhere to be seen, not even the glint of his eyes.

Perhaps he has left, thought the child. He did not see the shadow-like form sneaking behind them, following their every move.


	4. Chapter 4

The boy walked beside the man. Now that the thief had disappeared, Montparnasse was lost in admiring the man's beautiful coat. It was immaculately black. The boy wondered how he kept it so clean. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but that would dirty the wondrous thing.

"How far away do you live?"

Little Montparnasse shrugged.

"A few miles."

"You walk this every day?"

"Nearly."

The man put a hand on his shoulder. Montparnasse shuddered instinctively at the touch and nearly ducked away.

"I'm sorry," said the man.

"The police try that," said the boy, "But I'm too quick for them."

"But you weren't too quick for me."

"No. I wasn't too quick for you."

"I'm glad you weren't. It's a pleasure to talk to you."

Montparnasse smiled. He did not often smile.

"Are we friends then, sir?"

"Yes."

"Good. I have never had a friend."

"Perhaps if you wouldn't steal from them, you'd have more."

"Perhaps if I did not have to eat, I wouldn't steal."

The man said nothing, but just squeezed the boy's shoulder.

They walked in silence until they reached Montparnasse's room. His mother was not home, but the door was unlocked. He was ashamed for the man to see such a filthy little room.

"I'm sorry," He said. It was all he could do. Nothing he could think of would make the tiny room look any better.

"Do you really live in that?"

"My mother does. I'm not much here."

"Then where do you sleep?"

"Under benches. In alleys. Wherever I can find."

He walked to the shattered mirror and adjusted his hat. He licked his finger and attempted to clean dirt from his face. He could only imagine what the man thought of him. He suddenly felt very embarrassed and small. He wished there was somewhere to hide.

"How often do you see your mother?"

"Not often. Only in passing."

"How would you like to come live with me? You could use a good meal and a bath."

"Do you have a mirror?"

"I do."

"One that isn't broken?"

"Yes."

"I'll come." He turned to go with the man, but paused at the door, remembering the coins his father had given him. He looked at the man. If he was going to be friends, he couldn't be a thief.

Although it seemed to rend his heart, he left the coins on the doorstep.

"I am ready to go, sir."

"Good."

The man took his hand.

"Let us go, then."

He felt no regret at leaving his home behind, nor did he care if he ever saw his mother again.


	5. Chapter 5

Montparnasse held tight to the man's hand. Could it really be that he was going to a real house? He imagined what it would look like. It would be very fancy, he thought . Perhaps he would even get to sleep in a bed for once in his life.

He hurried to keep up with the man's steps, holding on to his hat as he ran.

"Is it a long way, sir?"

"It won't be terribly long for you. You walk a lot, no?"

"I walk all day, most of the time. If you please sir....is it at all possible to get a meal once we arrive? I think it's been a few days since I've eaten."

"Days?"

"Two days, at least."

"How do you live that way?"

"I live." the boy shrugged.

"You are not the only one."

Montparnasse did not like being compared to the other rough vagabonds who wandered the streets.

"They are not like. They have no manners nor grace."

"And you do?"

The boy attempted to wipe dirt from his face and didn't answer.

"Did you not try and steal from me yesterday?"

"Yes, but because I have no choice. I would die, otherwise."

"That money you left on the doorstep, did you steal that, too?"

Montparnasse stopped walking and removed his hand from the man's.

"I told you, I only steal what I need. That was given to me."

"By whom?"

"My father. He died under that street lamp last night."

The boy pointed. The body was gone, but there was blood on the ground.

The man looked shocked, but Montparnasse only shrugged.

"I am tired of standing around. Let us go."

"How did he die?" the man started to walk again.

"Some men came by and hit him with a club. There was blood everywhere. All over the pavement. So I ran."

"He was murdered?"

"I guess. It doesn't interest me. I didn't know him, in any case."

"We should report this to the police. They could bring the murderers to justice."

"What would the police care for a drunken man? They'd be glad he's off the street, most likely."

He refused to say more. They walked on.

Back at the park, they were greeted by another well-dressed old man.

"Montparnasse, I must speak with this gentleman. Take this francs and run to the market for me, please. I need a loaf of bread. Come right back."

The boy grabbed the money and rushed off. He did not see the shadow following him until it leaped on him from nowhere.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark. His hat was gone. He was bound and lying on cold floor. Somebody nearby was talking.

"That was stupid, Claquesous. You might have been caught."

"No, Babet, Claquesous did well," a husky, deep voice joined the other two, "The Montparnasse boy saw last night's murder."

"He was telling the old man," said Claquesous, "They would have got the law."

"Now what do we do with him?" asked Babet, "Kill him?"

"I-I'd prefer you didn't," stuttered Montparnasse. All eyes turned to him. He made out the forms of two people, one scrawny, and the other hugely muscular. All he could see of the third was eyes.

"Where am I?"

Nobody answered him.

"Who are you?"

No answer.

"I say we kill him," said Babet, the skinny one, "We can't afford to feed him. He's seen too much, he has."

"A little boy could be useful," said the huge one, "He can slip places we can't."

"Claquesous can move without being seen. What'd we need this kid for?"

"This boy has an innocent face. Claquesous does not."

"He's got no face at all."

Montparnasse began to edge away from the group, but the huge one saw him.

"If you make one more move," he said, his voice becoming impossibly deep, "I will tear your arms off."

Montparnasse stopped moving.

"He's too young," hissed Babet, as if they hadn't been interrupted.

"He'll grow. We're keeping him."

"What if he turns on us?"

"We'll kill him."

"We'd be ruined."

"Tomorrow," Claquesous spoke up at last, "Send him out on a job. Follow him. If he makes any sign of betrayal, kill him on the spot."

"Are you volunteering for that job?" Babet said.

"If I must."

"Come here, boy!"

Montparnasse inched closer.

"Will you stay with us, or would you rather die?"

"I'll stay."

"Good. Give the boy some food."

Someone handed him a chicken leg.

"One thing, though," said Montparnasse, "Do you think you might give back my hat?"

It was handed to him. Once it was back on his head, he felt a bit safer.


	6. The Boy and the Shadow

They had refused to give him the man's money back. This was the only thing that worried him. Would the old man take him back if he thought him a thief? He did not want the old man to think ill of him. He was only a thief when it was necessary. He did not intend to be a thief all his life. He would be a gentleman.

The boy thought quickly, trying to come up with a plausible lie about his whereabouts. Truly, he was good at lying, but he'd never had cause to lie to someone he liked, for he had never liked anyone. It was easy enough to lie to his mother, who he barely spoke to, but it seemed wrong to lie to the old man, who'd been kind to him.

Somewhere near him was Claquesous. Montparnasse could not see him, but he knew he was there. It would do him no good, then, to run for it. It made him nervous to be fired by someone whom he could not see.

"I'd rather you walked in the open," he said, "So I can see you."

"Don't need to see me. So long as _I_ can see _you_."

"I'd feel a lot safer. If I knew who was watching me."

There was an annoyed sigh, and a dark form appeared next to him. It seemed to materialize from nowhere. Perhaps, thought the boy, he came from my own shadow.

He looked behind him, to make sure his shadow was still attached to his feet. It was there. The boy turned to look at his companion.

The man was dressed in a long black cloak that touched the ground. He was masked in what looked like a black burlap sack. Montparnasse could not see his face. He could only see the cold spark of two eyes, which glared from the face like stars. The child thought he must be made of shadow, and almost wanted to reach out and touch him to make sure he was real. He dared not, for fear of accidently scattering him.

"Do you know the way?" growled the shadow.

"No, sir. Though I do know where I last saw him." The child pointed with one hand. The other clasped the hat, as if the shadow would steal it.

"Heh. Useless boy. Knows nothing. I know. This way."

Montparnasse felt a gloved hand grab his. It was surprisingly warm. Claquesous jerked him down an alleyway.

"Please, sir, if you know the way, why can't you do this?"

"Old man trusts you. Makes the job easier. Free ticket in. Don't have to break a window or kill anyone."

"You've killed people?"

"A few."

The child thought of his father again, lying in blood in the street. He could not believe that happened often. It was too strange and terrible to happen often. Could it be true that this warm hand could have taken the life of others? Montparnasse did not think so. He was not sure if he liked this shadow-man, but he did not seem as if he could kill anybody.

"This way. Through the sewer." The shadow had stopped walking.

At their feet was a grate. Claquesous lifted it from its place and tossed it aside.

"Down there. Quicker."

"But sir!" cried the child, "I shall get dirty! What if I lose my hat?"

"Better than losing your life."

Montparnasse was not so sure he agreed, but he descended the ladder into the stinking sewer, gripping the rusty rungs with his tiny hands. When he reached the bottom, he considered bolting, but where was he to go?

Soon, a loud thump told him that Claquesous had landed next to him.

"Come with me. Mind your step. Slippery."

He took the boys hand and began to guide him through the maze. Montparnasse was glad he was not made of shadow, after all. He gripped the hand tightly, leaning his head against the shadow's arm.

Claquesous did not even seem to breathe, making the child's footsteps and nervous breathing sound even louder.

"We have to wade here. Can you swim?"

"No."

"On my back, then."

Before Montparnasse could protest, he felt himself heaved on the man's back. He gripped him about the neck, bracing himself for the plunge.

Even so, he was not ready when Claquesous jumped. The foul water did not even make a splash when they hit it. Montparnasse tried not t think of what was in it, as his feet dragged the surface.

"Loosen up. You're choking me."

But Montparnasse did not loosen his grip. He did not want to slip into the water and drown. It would be a horrible, undignified way to die, they way some poor drunkard would. Not him. He intended to never die.

At seven years old, the thought of death had never occurred to him, not even with the persistent pinch of hunger. But now, with the cold, nasty water licking his shoes, he felt he could be swallowed up and lost forever.

"Do not let me fall, sir." He nearly felt tears come to his eyes, and he forced himself not to cry. He felt he was too old to be afraid.

"Don't worry. I got you."

The voice was surprisingly gentle, yet still strong. It comforted him. It sounded the way he'd always imagined his father's voice to sound. He laid his head on the shadow's shoulder. The rough fabric of the mask tickled his skin.

It seemed like an eternity before they reached the other stretch of sidewalk. Claquesous pulled himself out of the muck, with the boy still clinging to his back.

"You'll have to learn to swim. I'll teach you someday." Montparnasse did not answer. If he spoke, he was afraid he'd fall of the man's back and be swept away.

They did not speak until they came to another ladder.

"Hang on. We'll get there."

His stomach lurched as the man grabbed a rung and began to climb. He wished he had the courage to let go, so he could hold onto his hat, but his arms would not move. What would he do if it fell? He'd go after it, of course. He'd have to.

When at last they were out of the sewer and in the cold morning air. Montparnasse had to close his eyes against the blinding light, but he was glad for it.

"That wasn't so bad," said Claquesous, lowering him to the ground.

"Yes it was!" shouted the child.

Now that he was no longer in mortal danger, Montparnasse had recovered his temper.

"I could have died. Or worse, my hat could have been swept away forever! Then where would I be?" He stomped his foot and pouted.

"You'll not die while I'm around. Nor loose that hat." His voice had again taken on that father-like tone. He took the boy's hand, "Come. Almost there."

At last, his eyes were accustomed to the light, and he could see where they were. They were in a rather rich area, surrounded by elegant large houses that made Montparnasse feel very small. How he longed to live in one of them! When he grew up, he surely would. He'd own three of them, at least. He craned his neck to look at all of them, deciding which ones he wanted to buy when he was older. Although intimidated, he felt that this was a place fit for him, not the gutters.

He did not have time to look in amazement, because Claquesous was pointing at three storey house several feet in front of them.

"There. Go in. Tonight at twelve, come to the door. We'll be waiting. Let us in. Don't tell the old man anything. You'll be killed if you do. "

"You will kill me?" Montparnasse did not think that this man would kill him. Thus far, he'd been kind enough, if a bit frightening. He gazed at the man, suddenly slightly afraid.

"Not me," growled the shadow. He dropped the boy's hand.

"Promise?"

There was no answer. The shadow had fled.


End file.
